I sit in the room, my elbows wearily resting on the windowsill, staring blankly out the window. Beyond the glass, clouds drift lazily across the sky, and the dull gray heavens seem to mirror my own state—faded, exhausted, lost. Inside, everything is empty and silent, as if both my body and my soul have long since been abandoned, leaving behind only a shell.
My life has never been easy. And, to be honest, most of my troubles I have brought upon myself. My character—difficult, quick-tempered, proud—never lets me rest, pushes me toward mistakes, and doesn't allow me to admit fault. But I have to give credit—my ex-husband's temper is no less intense. We are like two fires in the same room, and instead of giving warmth, we burn everything around us, including each other.
Living under the same roof becomes unbearable. Constant conflicts, unspoken grievances, resentments… And worst of all, it isn't only our marriage that suffers—our son does too. A quiet, sensitive boy, unlike either me or his father. He seems to come from another world—gentle, vulnerable, withdrawn. Every loud argument makes him flinch. He silently retreats to his room, locks the door, and cries. I can hear his muffled sobs through the wall, and my heart clenches with pain and guilt. But even then, in those moments, I can't stop.
We both see that something terrible is happening to him. He has almost stopped talking and has become distant. His large dark eyes seem to fade day by day. Sometimes he answers briefly, to the point, as if afraid to say too many words. I feel us losing him. And perhaps for the first—and last—time, his father and I are united: something has to be done.
We decide the best thing we can do for him is to send him to a private boarding school. There, far from our toxic conflict, maybe he can recover. Find friends, feel safe… I hope. I hope so much. But the years pass, and he remains just as alone. His only friends become books. Thick volumes with worn covers, silent and reliable like no one else.
When he enters university, I have almost given up hope. It seems he has finally retreated into his own world, where there is no room for love, warmth, or people.
And then, in that silence filled with self-reproach and memories, my phone suddenly rings. The sound tears through the stillness of the room like a scream in the night. I glance at the screen—an unfamiliar number. Hesitant, but still, I answer:
"Yes, who is this?"
"Hello. Is this Elena Dmitrievna, the mother of Maxim Krylov?"—an unfamiliar voice asks me.
"Yes. Who am I speaking to?"
"I am the rector of the university where your son is studying."
Something jolts inside my chest. My heart tightens, and my breathing suddenly becomes difficult. Fear and anxiety instantly push away the apathy, and instead of the usual numb balance, a feeling of bewilderment rises in my soul, as if I don't understand what is happening. Every word the rector speaks grows heavier, as if getting stuck in the air, not allowing me to rest or grasp what comes next.
"Pleased to meet you… Are you calling for a particular reason? By the way, how did you get my phone number?"
"It's listed in his file as the number of the closest relatives. I called another number first, but no one answered."
Of course. Alexander is always busy. You can't reach him even if the world is falling apart. The irritating thought flashes through my mind—how easily his absence becomes a barrier when an answer is needed, when there's no time to wait.
I feel my palms grow sweaty. Something has happened. Something important. Or frightening? Adrenaline rushes through my veins, locking my body in tension. Inside, silence settles again, as if I am bracing myself for terrible news.
"So, what exactly are you calling about?" I ask, trying to keep the irritation from creeping into my voice. My lungs seem barely able to cope with the rising pressure. It feels as if this conversation is dragging on forever, and the anxious uncertainty is eating away at me like an invisible snake.
"Your son's academic performance has declined," he begins, his voice stern, almost dry. "And he has also begun to behave… not entirely appropriately."
I frown. My heart gives a sharp, unpleasant pang, as if it isn't mine anymore. The almost physical pain of those words strikes like a blow that knocks me off balance. Strange that such a thing could be said about Maxim. He has always been reserved, calm… this is so far from his nature.
"What do you mean by 'not appropriately'?" I ask again, warily, feeling a tight knot of anxiety rising inside, tearing my soul apart. I don't want those words to be true; I can't believe them. Could my son really have changed?
"He… placed a bucket on top of a door. And when I entered the lecture hall, dirty water poured over me. The bucket fell and struck me on the head."
For a moment, I am speechless. All I can do is stand there in complete shock, as if someone has switched off the sound in the room while the world continues to move around me.
"Are you… sure you're talking about my son? Maybe you're mistaken?" My voice trembles, and my heart begins to race wildly.
It sounds… unbelievable. Almost absurd. My son? The one who couldn't even hurt a fly, did such a thing? No. It can't be true. It must be someone's sinister joke, a vicious game.
"I asked him that question twice," the rector replies, his tone unchanged. "He admitted he did it himself."
"But… why? For what reason?" I whisper, trying to find even the smallest spark of explanation but finding nothing but darkness in this conversation. Why did my boy do this? Why did he act that way? What happened to him?
My breath grows heavy, almost hoarse. I don't understand what is going on. Every cell in my body is soaked in despair, as if the ground is slipping away beneath my feet. Maxim. It is him. But… why? Where did this change come from?
"He said he was simply in that kind of mood. Felt like having some fun."
Those words echo through the room, and I feel something inside me collapse. It is… not just strange. It is impossible. Those words hurt me deeply. Could it really be that my son—the same quiet, withdrawn, forever book-absorbed boy—is now capable of such a childish, cruel prank? What has happened to him?
"And… do you understand what caused such drastic changes?" I manage to squeeze out.
There is a short, heavy pause on the other end of the line. I hear him sigh.
"A girl came into his life. Katrin. Katrin Kamenskaya."
I freeze. The name is completely unfamiliar to me.
"That doesn't tell me anything," the words catch in my throat. "He never told me…"
Of course, he doesn't tell me. We have become strangers. And now, he lives his new life, in which I simply… don't exist. I feel the weight of those words hanging over my shoulders, and my chest tightens as if an invisible hand squeezes me. All those years when we are close, when I am part of his world, now vanish into emptiness, leaving behind only a shadow of memories that grow more distant and foreign with each passing day. I still remember his hands when he holds a book as a child, how he hides under the blanket with a flashlight, freezing in the silence of the night so as not to disturb that cozy, magical world.
And now… now he's pouring dirty water on the rector?
Like thunder out of a clear sky, this question shatters all my memories, turning them into something fragile and alien. My heart beats faster, and a feeling spins in my head that something has broken—something important. Something I can't even grasp. He has become a stranger. And I don't know what to do about it.
The world around me wobbles. Everything loses clarity, as if I suddenly find myself in some unknown reality where every step links to uncertainty. Something is happening to my son—something important, something terrible. And I might be the last one to find out. I can't shake that thought, and it gnaws at me from the inside. Why haven't I known? Why has it all stayed in the shadows, away from me, from our family? My heart keeps tightening, but I can't force myself to think of anything else.
"She's a bad influence on him," the rector says calmly, almost tired, as if he's said it many times before. "The girl herself, despite graduating school with a gold medal, has… to put it mildly, a terrible character. On her first day, she becomes infamous for gluing a teacher to a chair—with real industrial glue. The chair has to be thrown away: they never manage to get the pants off."
I blink in shock, unable to believe my ears.
"Excuse me… what?" I ask again to make sure I haven't misheard. "Why don't you expel her right away? She's clearly… unstable. And as a result, now she's a bad influence on my boy!"
My voice trembles with confusion and anger. It's impossible to imagine that adults, the administration, simply turn a blind eye to such behavior.
"You see," the rector clearly doesn't share my outrage, "she's the only one in the city who scores top marks in every subject. Without exception."
"And…?" Irritation grows inside me.
"That's kind of… a point of pride. If she studies here—it's prestige. So we have to put up with her. Although, I must say, she quiets down after this incident."
I bite my lip, feeling the blood drain from my face. Could she really be smarter than my son? No. That can't be. Most likely, by some trick, loophole, deceit—as with everything in her life.
"Tell me more about her," I demand, clutching the phone tighter. My heart pounds as if warning me that something bad is hidden behind that name. I have to know. You have to know your enemy by sight.
"She smokes," he begins reluctantly. "I see her personally standing with a group around the corner of the dorm during a break, blowing smoke rings like in the movies. She often skips classes, says she's busy… though rumor has it she just hangs out in bars and clubs. Lately, though, she comes less. But… at a recent Math Olympiad, she arrives, to put it mildly, drunk. Almost an hour late. Yet she completes the test in half an hour—and scores the highest points. Even higher than your Maxim."
I shrink back in my chair as if someone has hit me. A wave of pure, bitter hatred flares inside my chest. How?! How does she manage to get what my son fights for every day?! He studies late into the night, torments himself, tries hard—and she… she drinks, smokes, skips—and beats him?!
"After spending time with her," the rector continues, "your Maxim starts changing a lot. His clothes change—now he wears black jackets, strange jeans. And… recently, he ends up in the hospital."
"What?" I gasp. A fist seems to squeeze my chest. "In the hospital? Because of her?!"
"I don't know," he admits. "No one gives me the details. I only receive a notification that he spends a week there. I have no further information."
For a moment, the world ceases to exist. Only emptiness rings in my ears and my heart pounds wildly. I understand all I need to understand. This connection has to end. And urgently. I have already missed too much. Further would only be destruction.
"Thank you for telling me," I say through clenched teeth. My voice is cold, steel-hard. "I will take action. Goodbye."
I hang up before he can say more. The phone slips from my hands, and I sit still for a long time, staring at the wall as if I could find answers there. Where do I lose the moment when my son slips into a foreign world where I am no longer his support? And most importantly—how do I bring him back now?..
That nasty girl… She dares to invade my boy's life. Ruins his character, distracts him from his studies, drags him into her dirty, loose world. She's pulling him down—I see it clearly, hear it in the rector's voice.
But it's okay, darling… Either you leave on your own, or I'll help you leave. Forever.
I don't hesitate for a second. I sit down, take the phone, and message Alexander. As usual, he doesn't reply immediately. We don't say more—he just sends the needed amount as soon as he realizes it's really important to me.
Let's see how strong your love is when a real mother steps in.